


Colt Single Action Army

by stunningepiphanies



Category: Supernatural, Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crossover, Gen, Mentioned Pamela Barnes/John Winchester, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunningepiphanies/pseuds/stunningepiphanies
Summary: 2000: A disaster happens in Canada, and John Winchester gets a call about a gun.A Supernatural and Wynonna Earp crossover.





	Colt Single Action Army

John is blessedly in Montana when the call comes in, though the timing sure is shit. He’s half asleep and mostly hungover, beat to hell fresh off a routine salt and burn of some long dead pioneers who didn't have the brains to not fucking die out in the wilderness. It had only taken two days but christ, hunts all the way out here always take something extra out of him. The shriek of the motel telephone manages to rouse his tired, old ass from the dead, but somehow Sammy’s still sawing logs like a champ. 

God, what he'd give to be that young again. 

It takes John a few tries to grasp at the receiver but by the grace of _something_ , he manages to get it to his ear before the call drops. “Who is this?” The question is rough, crusted in sleep and Old No.7, but it doesn't belie the seriousness of the situation. No one should have this number. _No one_ should know where he is besides Pam Barnes, and even she's just got a general idea. Is it a good way for a hunter to operate? Well, no, but everyone knows how he likes his privacy. Adds the whole mystery of his reputation, too. It don't hurt. 

“Good morning to you too, asshole.” 

Well, that sure as hell sobers him up. It's a voice he hasn't heard in years, not since it was hurling obscenities at his back along with some hot lead. “Jesus Christ, Singer? How’d you get this number?”

Bobby laughs down the line, mirthless as per usual. “Had to call around. Called Jim Murphy, he got ahold of Caleb who said Pam might have an inkling where you were.” Something in his voice makes John think Caleb was thinking more in inches away than miles. 

Wouldn't have been 100% wrong. 

“Goddamn psychics. I didn't even tell her what town I was headed to.” He groans, scrubbing a hand across his face in a half-assed attempt to wake himself up. Shit, feels like he grew a whole damn beard in the middle of the night. “Can't say anything in ten miles of that one.”

“Yeah, well,” Bobby grumbles, eager to move this little reunion along, “you'll be glad you did. Got some huge news last night.”

“Oh?” John already figured something big was up—it had to be to get Singer to break the mutual freeze between the two of them—but it's got him sitting up a little straighter in bed regardless. “News on my hunt.”

“No. Well, no, maybe.” He hesitates, then: “Earp’s dead.”

 _Oh shit_ , is John’s immediate reaction, but his second thought is what makes it through his lips. “I'm surprised it took this long. Good riddance.”

No one liked Ward Earp. No one that knew better, anyway 

Earp was renowned in American and Canadian hunting circles as a general milquetoast piece of shit. John had met him a handful of times years ago, back before his rap sheet had gotten long enough that crossing the border was asking for trouble. He’d never liked the man—Ward was jumpy at best, cowardly at worst, and a shit hunter. The man always insisted he wasn't one, just lived in a place where the law had a few more things to handle than other places. 

Uh huh, yeah, sure. 

Ward was also one of the meanest drunks John had ever seen. No telling where all that anger and entitlement came from, considering who he was sober. But maybe he felt the power coming off that name and badge a little too strongly, like it made him above everyone else. It wouldn't surprise John one bit, if he were telling the truth. Earp had always refused to get help from the hunter population at large until he got in too deep, talking shit until someone inevitably came rushing into his territory to help stem the flow of casualties. Last John had heard, no one was running to his aid anymore. So, it comes as no surprise to hear he finally bit the big one. That's what happens when you think you're better than your peers. You get dead. 

He can hear Bobby laughing at his end, but this time he can tell the animosity has eased up a hair. “That's the goddamn truth.” 

“The curse, right? When did it happen?” John sighs, then manages to heave himself up fully to sit on the side of the rock-hard motel mattress. The world spins a little, but his stomach has the decency to stay in place for the moment. 

“Curtis McCready called a few hours ago, sounds like it happened yesterday. He was real broken up, said they got him and his oldest girl.”

“Shit.” Kid deaths, now there was something that clawed at him a little For a moment he almost feels ashamed of himself for shitting on Ward’s memory. “Is there anyone going out there to pay ‘em back?” It's the appropriate question for right now, at least, but it's not the one he wants to ask. Not the answer he's looking for. 

And Bobby, in all his years of being the hunter switchboard, can tell. “Y’don’t have to come up with that bullshit excuse to go out there, Winchester.” Well. He always has beem good at seeing through his shit. “Curtis asked you to come up for the funeral.”

“Is it about th-”

Bobby stops him before he can even finish the thought. “Yeah. It's about the Gun. Wouldn't say any more than that, though.”

And of course, it's that moment that John’s hungover brain chooses to lose the battle it’s been waging with his heaving stomach. Pure coincidence, but way to look like a little bitch over the phone, right? 

“You okay there princess?” Fuck, he can just hear the shitty little smirk in his voice. “When you're done losin’ your pancakes, I got a phone number for you.”

“Don’t bother. I got the address already.”

John wipes the rest of the puke from his lips with the back if a hand, mind already going a mile a minute. Sammy can't come, of course. He’ll have to stay here in the room for a few days, but what seventeen year old wouldn't kill for a few days alone with cable TV and junk food? He’ll have to call Dean, but at least that means they’ll both be safe. And then there's the fake papers in his glove box, he’ll be able to get over the border without raising much suspicion. Oh, and he'll need to call Pam, give her a hard time about loose lips sinking ships and if he left his good boxers under her bed. 

But number one, he's got to get his shit together, fast. There's a funeral he’s got to got to in Purgatory. Well, a funeral and a Peacemaker.

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently The Colt is a Peacemaker but Peacemaker is not a Peacemaker. Go figure. 
> 
> Joke's on you anyway, John, the one you want's in Colorado.


End file.
